Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to be
tormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girl
pictures of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic
impression. In the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted
outlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of
things material and mental, Ailsa Paige's face alone remained
strangely clear. And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, he
leaned forward to her shoulder again.
"There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turned
slowly and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke in her eyes remained
unuttered.
"Be more genuine with me," she said gently. "I am worth it, Mr.
Berkley."
Then, suddenly there seemed to run a pale flash through his brain,
"Yes," he said in an altered voice, "you are worth it. . . . Don't
drive me away from you just yet."
"Drive you away?" in soft concern. "I did not mean----"
"You will, some day. But don't do it to-night." Then the quick,
feverish smile broke out.
"Do you need a servant? I'm out of a place. I can either cook,
clean silver, open the door, wash sidewalks, or wait on the table;
so you see I have every qualification."
Smilingly perplexed, she let her eyes rest on his pallid face for a
moment, then turned toward the stage again.
The "Seven Sisters" pursued its spectacular course; Ione Burke,
Polly Marshall, and Mrs. Vining were in the cast; tableau succeeded
tableau; "I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popular
burlesque ended in the celebrated scene, "The Birth of the
Butterfly in the Bower of Ferns," with the entire company kissing
their finger-tips to a vociferous and satiated audience.
Then it was supper at Delmonico's, and a dance--and at last the
waltz promised him by Ailsa Paige.
Through the fixed unreality of things he saw her clearly, standing,
awaiting him, saw her sensitive face as she quietly laid her hand
on his--saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.
Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet only
of the surprise.
Dazed, he stared back. Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; both
seemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance,
and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned. Only the fragrance
of her hair seemed real to him; and the long lashes resting on
curved cheeks, and the youth of her yielding to his embrace.